Unbought Limes

The fridge door, cold and wide,

I peeled the paper, curling thin.

A faded list, where words had died

or faded, save for one within.

Milk, eggs, bread, coffee beans –

all crossed out, a heavy line.

And then, at the bottom, it gleans,

just the word 'limes,' no sign

of purchase.

No green fruit, no sharp smell

cut through the air. Just the ink.

A small, quiet, persistent spell

of oversight, a moment to think

about what was missed.

It was weeks ago, that trip.

A forgotten tang, a drink

that went unmade, a slip

in the plans. A small, blue link

to a different time.